


Across the Border

by rosewiththorns



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Detroit Red Wings, Friendship, Gen, Good-Bye, Hurt/Comfort, Old Age, change, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-08-11 09:10:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7885132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosewiththorns/pseuds/rosewiththorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tomas wants to play with Pavel forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Across the Border

**Author's Note:**

> The inspiration for this came from a Slovak interview Tomas did where he mentioned how Pavel had told him about his decision to leave in January, and where he also discussed how Pavel had theorized that he and Tomas were only played together on the power play because Pavel was leaving.

“Pain and memory have been stilled There across the border Pastures of gold and green Roll down into cool clear waters And in your arms 'neath the open skies I'll kiss the sorrow from your eyes There across the border.”—Emmylou Harris

Across the Border 

“Remember last year when we used to play together—not just during practice, but during actual games?” Tomas shot Pavel a sidelong, wistful glance as they both squirted Gatorade into their gaping, panting mouths during a lull in the action of one of their after practice training sessions, where, as always Pavel was stickhandling Tomas’ ass off, and, Tomas was grinning the whole time. Playing with Pavel was so fun that you couldn’t help but smile even as you were destroyed. There was just such a purity—such a smoothness and grace—to Pavel’s game that you couldn’t stop admiring it even when you were the victim quite literally on the wrong end of the stick. 

He had been so fond of playing with Pavel—having one of the most gifted playmakers in the NHL set him up for snipes, and listening to his advice or encouragement, so often delivered with a wry grin or a teasing nudge, on the bench—and he thought Pavel had been fond of playing with him, which had been the most flattering thing, but now under Blash, they were lucky if they got to spend any time together during a game. Maybe there was a ring of truth to that old and impossible to crack chestnut about a person not being able to appreciate what they had until it was gone. Certainly Tomas hadn’t treasured each moment of playing with Pavel when there had been what felt like an infinite amount of them, stretching out day after day and game after game, and he had joined most of the former members of the Grand Rapid Griffins in exchanging high-fives via text when Babs had sailed off into the sunset that was Toronto, but now Tomas would gladly have suffered a million patented Babcock glares if it just meant that Tats and Dats could be a thing again. Babs might have been all kinds of insufferable, but at least he had let Tomas play with Pavel, though that had probably been more for Pavel’s sake than Tomas’ because Pavel was the type of player even a hardass like Babs wanted to make happy most of the time. 

“I not so old I forget huge chunks last season.” Pavel ruffled Tomas’ damp hair, sending a salty shower of sweat across the bench where they were drinking their Gatorade. “And we still play together this year on the powerplay.” 

“That’s not the same.” Tomas’ lips shifted into a pout around the stopper of his Gatorade bottle. “It’s ironic, you know. I hated Babs for not giving a shit about what anyone else thought or felt, but now Blash is pissing me off by trying to make everyone happy and in the process ticking everybody off. He’s keeping us apart for no reason when all we did was produce last season. What a load of crap.” 

“Maybe he does have a reason.” Pavel’s careful response was only to be expected because, to Tomas’ knowledge, he had never spoken against a coach. That was part of the Red Wings standard that Tomas could not live up to. He spilled out whatever was in his mind or heart without hesitation or tact, and he made no apologies for that bluntness. The truth was all he had to cling to in an ever-spinning world. 

“Yeah, and perhaps I’m an alien invading from Mars.” Rolling his eyes to show what he thought of Pavel’s equivocal language, Tomas snorted. 

“Quiet.” Pavel grabbed Tomas’ wrist, and Tomas bit his tongue to silence it, rather shocked that Pavel was getting so adamant during what should have been a casual conversation. “Close mouth, open ears, and listen good. Maybe Blash has reason not play us together. Perhaps he getting you used to playing without me for when I not on this team next year.” 

“What do you mean?” Tomas wanted to laugh because Pavel had to be joking, even if his face was as serious as a heart attack, but fear that Pavel might just be telling the truth made his mouth, which he had just quenched with Gatorade, feel to dry for laughter. “You’re signed for another season after this one.” 

“Can’t fulfill it.” Pavel seemed to be having trouble forming the words, as if his lips and tongue had gone as dry as Tomas’. There must have been some pathogen in the arena. That would explain a lot, including Pavel’s lunatic declaration about leaving the team. “Too old and broken.” 

“You’re a spring chicken compared to Jagr.” Tomas forced his lips into a smile that probably looked more grotesque than joking. “And the only ones broken are the defenseman you beat every night.” 

“Wish that were true but it not.” Pavel’s eyes were gleaming with a peculiar mixture of sorrow and hope. “What true is you need take over for me on this team when I gone.” 

“Nobody can take over for you.” Tomas shook his head, disbelieving, yet somehow believing enough to have tears pricking his eyes like needles. “You’re the Magic Man.” 

“Just do the best you can.” Pavel was pulling Tomas against his chest, and Tomas couldn’t breathe, suffocated from the pressure—the burden—of being told that he was expected to step into Pavel’s skates, which might have been small, but loomed large in the imagination of any NHL player, especially one who had ever worn the Winged Wheel. “That all I ever do but now my best not good enough. Have to go back to Russia where maybe my best is good enough.” 

“If you’re best isn’t good enough, mine definitely won’t be.” Tomas buried his face in Pavel’s sweater, inhaling the scent of sweat, and finding it comforting—proof that Pavel was still beside him—rather than revolting. 

“False.” Pavel tugged at Tomas’ earlobe, chiding but teasing. “You young. When you young, you best is always good enough. Part of innocence of youth.” 

“I feel like I aged a decade since we started this conversation.” Tomas gazed up at Pavel’s guitar-chin and wondered how to ask questions to which there were no answers he wanted to hear. “Why are we having this conversation anyway?” 

“Because you have to take over for me.” Pavel’s gloved palm patted Tomas’ cheek, but somehow that gentle gesture still felt like a slap. “Because you my friend and need know.” 

“Friends don’t leave friends.” Tomas was tempted to slip out of Pavel’s grasp, but he knew that Pavel would just outmaneuver him, and, besides, there was something reassuring about being locked against Pavel’s chest with Pavel’s glove rubbing a soothing rhythm along his cheekbones. 

“Not leaving you.” Pavel gave one of his inscrutable grins. “I be here in spirit, and you know how to get to Russia from Slovakia. Just across some borders.”


End file.
